A Good Man
by CaptainHooksGirl
Summary: Standing on a rooftop overlooking the city of Paris, Javert reflects on what makes a man "good" and whether or not he falls into that category. As the barricade falls, the revolutionaries aren't the only ones who need reminding that even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise. An alternate ending for Javert.


**Author's Note: So, I recently saw the new "Les Mis" movie, and I absolutely LOVED it! Despite the many complaints I've seen about Russell's Javert, I thought his acting was incredible and his singing voice, while perhaps not as strong as other Javerts, was appropriate for the role. Honestly, I thought his soft tone during "Stars" and the soliloquy did a great job of showing the more human side of a character who is typically mechanical and cold. Anyway, long story short, Russell's Javert is what inspired this little fic (and some others which I will hopefully be posting soon), which is why he's on a ROOF rather than a BRIDGE, but otherwise, I suppose the story works equally well for whatever Javert happens to be your favorite. :) Hope you like it! **

**~CaptainHooksGirl~**

**Disclaimer: "Les Miserables" belongs to Victor Hugo and Claude Michel-Schonberg (musical composer), not me!**

**A Good Man**

Rhythmic steps on the rooftop echo down the alleyway, the subtle click of black leather boots on brick the only sound for miles save for the battlecry of the barricade now reduced to a faint roar. Only the orange spark on the horizon and the acrid stench of gunpowder on the breeze testify that the barrier still stands. By morning the fires will be extinguished. Order will be restored. The blood will be swept off the streets, and soon everything will go back to the way it was before—the way it _should_ be. All those overzealous schoolboys and their cries for liberty don't stand a chance. They are fighting a losing battle, and they know it.

Javert frowns, disturbed by the thought that perhaps a small part of him wishes things were otherwise. In another time, in another place, he might well have found himself in their position. Though he disagrees with the moral principles behind their actions, he cannot honestly say that they are not brave men—_good _men—and that is what troubles him most of all. Before, he would have argued that a man cannot simultaneously be convicted by the law and blameless before God, but now he isn't so certain. The primary instigators of the revolution were mostly streetrats and orphaned urchins who had nowhere else to go and no one who would mourn their loss. The barricade had brought them together, given them something to fight for, something to believe in. It had given them hope that they could rise above their circumstances—the same hope that Javert had found in the law, the same hope that he still clings to with a fierce determination even as it crumbles into ashes at his feet. He is grasping at the wind, but no matter how hard he tries, the concept evades his grasp.

How can a man be _good_ if he is lawless? All his life Javert had seen the world in immutable shades of black and white, but he sudden, unexpected act of mercy of an ex-convict had caused him to question his beliefs. Now, looking out over the sleeping city of Paris, the shadows seem to merge into a single mass of gray. Even the stars, his old companions, are darkened on this night, the familiar comfort of their order and guidance blotted out by a blanket of clouds and smoke from the rifles of dead men that hangs in the air like their ghosts lingering above the battlefield.

His steps falter, and he scrambles to latch onto something—anything—to keep from falling. Thankfully, his fingers find their way to one of the statues that guards the rooftop—an eagle—and he smiles faintly at the irony as his gaze wanders to the raging waters of the Seine below. He has walked this path hundreds of times and never once had he stumbled or needed to look down. Until now.

He had long believed the old saying that the truth shall make you free. [1] The law was God's word and, therefore, the truth. And, of course, it naturally followed that keeping the law was all the freedom that one would ever need—to do otherwise, even in the name of liberty, would be to sin. No righteous man could disagree. But was it righteous to kill men—even children—in the name of the law for simply standing up for their convictions and call it the will of God? His thoughts turn to the boy at the barricade—the same little boy who had revealed his identity as a police inspector and gotten him tied to a support beam with a gun to his head. If anyone other than Valjean had been on the other end of that barrel, he knew he would have been dead. And yet, despite all his hatred for the boy in that moment, when he'd found him lying dead in the alleyway he had felt a deep and inexplicable emotion something akin to grief. What kind of government was built on the blood of children? What kind of corrupted justice said to "love thy neighbor" yet had no qualms in breaking the commandment "thou shalt not murder" if it suited its own needs? [2] Was it God's law or man's that governed his life? Even Christ Himself had denounced the law of man when it took precedence over the law of love. [3]

It had not been _his _bullet that pierced the boy's flesh, but it _had_ been his men who gunned him down. A sudden wave of overwhelming guilt washes over him, the crushing weight of such a revelation making him almost physically ill. His grip on the gargoyle instinctively tightens as his legs threaten to give way beneath him.

"Oh, God."

He raises a trembling hand to his face and pinches the bridge of his nose trying to dam the wetness seeping stubbornly through his fingers.

"Oh, God."

_What have I done?_

_Everything I've ever done…everything that I ever believed…all that I stood for…was wrong._

He looks down again. The river is swollen with rain, gorged on the blood of the fallen. The water is dark—an ominous, gaping void ready to swallow him up; a serpent winding its way through the streets of Paris, devouring everything in sight. A voice emerges from the rushing of the river, a voice that is as ancient as it is familiar.

_Men like you can never change_, it hisses. _You were born in the gutter, and in the gutter you remain. By your own standards, you should not exist, for the very filth and scum you tried so hard to eliminate runs in your veins. How many children starved because you threw their mothers in jail for prostitution or condemned their fathers for stealing bread? You're the same illegitimate half-breed you always were. The badge is of little consequence._

His white-knuckled grip loosens, a sweaty palm slipping on the smooth, polished surface of the rock. An icy fear constricts his heart.

_I was hungry, and you did not feed Me._

He imagines Valjean's little nephew wasting away.

_I was naked, and you did not clothe Me._

Fantine's dead, glassy eyes.

_I was sick and in prison, and you never visited Me._

24601 branded on a chest with a hot iron.

_Judge not that ye be not judged._

I am the law, and the law is not mocked.

_Depart from Me, I never knew you. _[4]

And the stony façade finally cracks. With sweat pouring from his brow and silent tears slipping down his cheeks, he takes a small step forward, leaning precariously out over the water. But his fingers remain loosely linked around the eagle's talons, and he suddenly finds himself wishing foolishly to remain forever suspended in this moment between life and death. He no longer has the will to hold on, but neither can he find the strength to simply let go, for he knows that it is not heaven's gates that await him. And the raw terror that floods his soul is unlike anything he's ever experienced.

"Oh, God," he chokes. "God forgive me."

He lets go.

But a firm grip on his arm suddenly jerks him upright and out of death's embrace. And for a brief moment he almost expects to see an angel, breathing a shaky sigh of relief and muttering a hoarse prayer of thanks as he turns to look up at his savior, but the words die on his lips the moment he sees the man's face. He stiffens, eyes narrowing in accusation.

"Valjean."

The former convict frowns. "When I spared your life, Inspector, it was with the intent for you to make use of it."

"Release me." It is meant to be an order, but the trembling of his limbs drains the venom from his voice so that it sounds more like a tired plea of one utterly defeated.

"Or what? You'll turn me in? I have already told you that I would come willingly." When he is met with only silence, he continues. "Or perhaps you'd prefer to administer justice yourself. I still have the gun if that is what you wish."

Javert shoots him a withering glare. "I am not a murderer." _At least, not by the law._

But murder is murder, and the words lack the conviction he wishes they had.

Valjean raises an eyebrow. "And yet you seem prepared to throw your _own_ life away with little remorse—why?"

There is a moment of hesitation followed by a weary sigh of resignation. "You are a good man, Valjean."

He grimaces at the confession, as if it almost physically pains him to admit aloud that the niggling doubt in the back of his mind that has plagued him for years is true and the conundrum of a man before him is morally his equal, if not his superior.

Valjean, unsure of whether the words are meant as an apology or an accusation, merely gives a polite nod. "As are you, Inspector."

Javert shakes his head. "I am good in the eyes of the law, but _you_ are good in the eyes of the Lord. Tell me, Valjean, which do you think is of greater value?" Not waiting for a reply, he continues. "All this time that I have spent doing things in the name of justice and God, I have been working against the very cause in which I believed. I am a fool at best and an idolater at worst. I have worshipped the law when I ought to have worshipped the Law-_Giver_, and I have overlooked the greatest commandment of all—to love. [5] I thought to earn my salvation by keeping the law, and inevitably, I have failed. I was wrong about you, Valjean. I was wrong about many things." He sighs again. "I am tired now, Valjean. I am tired of wasting my life, tired of playing this game. Perhaps we are both good, but you are undoubtedly the better man. Now you have heard it from my mouth, so please…spare us both the trouble and let me go."

The sheer agony in the inspector's voice is almost enough to convince his former enemy that death would be a mercy for his tortured soul, but he does not release the man's shoulder. If anything, he squeezes harder. Offering a sympathetic smile, he simply shakes his head. "You know I can't do that."

Javert purses his lips. "Sometimes you're too noble for your own good, Valjean."

The former convict chuckles softly. "And you're too hard on yourself." Before the inspector can open his mouth to protest, he raises a hand for silence. "The law _is_ good, Javert. But it must be tempered with grace—with _mercy_—else Christ's death be for naught." He pauses. "Your heart is in the right place—it always has been. And your actions, while sometimes harsh, were always carried out with the best of intentions—however misguided. You are hardly a villain in the truest sense of the word."

"There are many who would disagree with you, Valjean."

"Even the worst of sinners can become a saint. Look at Paul—he murdered Christians in the name of God and yet he became one of the greatest missionaries in all of Christendom! Can you imagine what the world would have been like if he had chosen to wallow in self-pity? Certainly, he must have felt guilt, but he did not let that guilt _consume_ him. And neither must you."

Cold, gray eyes flicker down. "Those who falter and those who fall must pay the price."

"Yes, but the price has already been paid." The former convict puts his free hand on the inspector's other shoulder, holding him out at arm's length and forcing him to meet his gaze. "You _are _a good man, Javert. The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord, and though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down." [6]

[1] John 8:3

[2] Mark 12:31 and Exodus 20:13

[3] Luke 14:1-5 In this passage, Jesus heals a man on the Sabbath, which at the time, was considered unlawful by the Pharisees because healing was a form of work and work on the Sabbath was prohibited by God. However, Jesus shows that sometimes men misinterpret God's law and that ultimately God's desire is for people to love one another even if it means not following the law to a tee.

[4] The previous lines in italics are a slightly shortened and/or paraphrased version of Matthew 25:42-43, Matthew 7:1, and Matthew 7:23.

[5] Matthew 22:36-40, which reads as follows: Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?" Jesus replied: "'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.' This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments."

[6] From Psalm 37:23-24


End file.
